


Returning

by smolstiel



Series: Brothers Apart AUs and One-Shots [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brothers Apart, Dean is a good big bro, Gen, Ghost Sam, Sam might be slightly vengeful, Tiny sam, all the feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 17:18:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11925549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smolstiel/pseuds/smolstiel
Summary: Brothers Apart, except the curse went a little bit...awry.





	Returning

**Author's Note:**

> I can't stop messing around with nightmares06's world. It's an addiction. 
> 
> Also, ghost!AU. Always ghost!AU.

Dean knew why he was here. 

There could be only one reason why Dad would send him to the motel where he had lost his Sammy, so long ago. Only one reason why he had specified the same room where the witch had tried to kill them both, and succeeded with one. Only one reason why he would force Dean to face his failure all over again. 

His hands were steady as he unlocked the door and came inside. He dumped his duffel to one side of the room with a thump, and stared at the closed curtains on the other side. 

“Finally.” 

The voice was one Dean knew all too well, and he knew, he _knew_ he shouldn't have come. He immediately cocked his sawed-off, loaded with enough salt to tear the voice apart and send it to its final rest. And that was really the point, wasn't it? 

Except when he spun toward the voice, gaze steely and shotgun aimed, he saw nothing. He lowered it slowly, and then sighed, leaning it against the wall. He ran a hand through his hair. He couldn't do this. He really couldn't do this. 

He left the gun there, went into the bathroom, shut the door behind him. Leaned on the counter and put his head in his hands. He stayed that way for a long time. Long enough for the air to gain a slight chill. He instantly stiffened, and hesitantly glanced into the mirror. 

Nothing. 

“Down here, dumbass,” came the annoyed, young, _familiar_ voice, and Dean’s eyes reluctantly fell to the counter. And widened. 

“Son of a _bitch_!” He slammed his shoulder into the door, scrabbling for the handle. Locked. Locked? He hadn't — 

“ _Stop it,_ De!” the voice shrieked, and Dean froze in place as he felt frigid, childish fingers close around his wrist. Which was in no way matching up with the picture he was seeing. 

Because the ghost of his baby brother was standing on the bathroom sink, barely a couple of inches tall, miniature transparent arms crossed and one microscopic brow raised. 

Dean swallowed hard. “S-S-Sammy,” he croaked. 

The tiny ghostlike figure brightened. “Hi, Dean!” He waved. “I've been waiting _forever_ to see you!” The little glowing legs marched across the white counter, head bobbing cheerfully in time with it. “You’ve been gone for years and years and I thought you forgot me!” 

“I’d never forget about you,” Dean managed, staring. Because — what? _How?_ This wasn't making any sense! 

Sam hopped across the short gap between the counter and Dean’s upturned palm, and when had he put his hand there? “I know that _now_ ,” he replied, that air of little brother know-it-all hanging thickly enough in the tone to make tears spring to Dean’s eyes. The figure made its spectral way up his arm, from wrist to elbow to shoulder. “I missed you!” Sam said brightly, and Dean couldn't see him. Only hear that horribly sweet voice. 

He closed his eyes, feeling a tear trek down one cheek, and the cold grasp on his wrist tightened, hard and fast. 

“You missed me too, right Dean?” Sam asked, innocent in the way that made him think (know) that he was sporting those giant puppy dog eyes under his ridiculous fluffy hair. Made him think (know) this was why he was here. 

“I missed you,” he choked out. “Missed you so much, kiddo.” He couldn't open his eyes, because that would mean looking in the mirror and seeing Sam’s bitty ghostly feet kicking in rhythm as they dangled from his perch on his shoulder. 

He could hear Sam grin. “And now you’ll never leave me again! Right, Dean?” 

He hesitated, and then cried out as his wrist was suddenly burning cold, he was going to die, Sam was going to kill him. 

“You're going to stay. Aren't you?” Sam asked, sweet as sugar, and Dean nodded through his tears. Took a sharp, deep breath. 

“Leggo, Sammy, _please,_ ” he begged, and Sam did. Sudden enough that he stumbled and had to catch himself on the towel bar. His eyes flew open on instinct, and all he could see in the mirror was Sam. Tiny and leaning against Dean’s neck like he belonged there. 

“I knew you’d stay,” Sam said with a confidence that settled a knot in Dean’s stomach. Because he never could say no to Sammy. 

The coldness had travelled down to hold his hand, same way that Sam always had. Same way that Sam always would. 

“I'm attached to the motel room,” Sam informed him, a bit loftily, a bit proud that he figured it out. “So I need someone to keep me company.” The grip tugged him into the room, irresistible and immovable, and Dean didn't have a choice. 

Sam was standing on the floor now, looking down at a small stain on the floor. “That's me,” he said, pointing at it. “The witch cursed me to be tiny, and Dad stepped on me.” 

Dean cringed at the leaden certainty in the words. “You remember dying?” he couldn't help asking. 

Instantly a lamp flew across the room and shattered against the wall. Dean ducked sharply at the sound. 

“I don't _have_ to remember!” Sam screeched. “It wasn't you, it wasn't, it _wasn't_! You’d never hurt me! You love me! Dad _hates_ me! And now he sent you here to kill me!” He watched tensely as Sam suddenly turned a white-sharp glare on him, with eyes that used to be hazel. “And _you won't do it_.” 

It was a command, and Dean recognized it as such, but he shook his head slowly. “Sammy,” he said gently, his heart breaking. “Sammy, you're already dead.” 

That was definitely the wrong thing to say, because Sam started screaming, and everything was shattering, breaking, wind whipping round and round, and it was all Dean could do to roll out of the way and cover his head until it had fallen into silence. Then out of the quiet, a tiny, broken sob.

“I'm sorry,” Sammy whimpered. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to, De.” 

He lifted his head. The room was entirely trashed. Shards of glass, splintered furniture. The bedding ripped to shreds. The only untouched spot in the room was a six or seven inch radius around the spot that used to be Sammy, and his spirit curled into a ball on top. 

“You can’t stay here, Sammy,” Dean said, and his brother sniffled. 

“I know,” he said. 

He approached, slowly, and offered a finger. Sam leaned into it, and he found himself ruffling his little brother’s hair. “I'll see you when I get up there,” he promised. He hoped. 

“I know,” Sam said again. “But this isn't how it was supposed to be.” 

Dean felt his eyes burning again, and he turned away. “Yeah,” he said. 

When he looked back, Sam had disappeared. 

•••

Dean cut out a square of carpet that contained the spot that was Sam, and burned it. There were no voices. No coldness grasping at his wrist, his heart. Just an empty gaping hole and unrelenting guilt. He watched until the embers died, and held vigil for Sam. 

He checked out a few minutes later, got into Baby, and drove as far away from Trails West as he could. Kept his eyes on the road, so his vision wouldn't blur again. Kept his mind far away from everything that had happened. Kept it all locked away in the farthest — 

A chill settled over the car. 

“Did you know spirits can be attached to items even after their remains are burnt?” Sam piped, and Dean’s eyes shot to the rear view mirror. 

There was a ghostly figure sitting on his shoulder, fiddling with his collar like he was trying to make it into a blanket. 

“I didn't. But now I don't have to go away! I can stay with you!” he giggled happily. “Aren't you glad for me, Dean?” 

“Sure, Sammy,” Dean managed. “Yeah. I'm real happy for you.” His hands shook on the wheel, and he couldn't take his eyes off the tiny shape. 

“Good.” The hint of a threat lingered for just a moment, the hint of an impending ghostly tantrum. Then Sam seemed to adjust himself how he liked, and leaned his cold back against Dean’s neck. “So where are we going?” 

He watched the empty highway roll by, twilight darkness and black expanses of field. “Blackwater Ridge,” he said finally. “Think we got a wendigo down there.” 

Sam’s smile was bright enough to kill.


End file.
